What It Means to Like a Girl
by Spruceton Spook
Summary: A late night dream at a Pokémon Center forces Brock to relate one of the most embarrassing moments of his life...and perhaps his most fateful. Gymshippy funness! And a one-shot too...


****

What It Means to Like a Girl

__

By Spruceton Spook

His surroundings were blurry, everything around him smeared together to create one vast, prismatic splash of colors. The sounds of people laughing and yelling blended together obscurely, the music blared a warped tune, and it didn't even feel like there was a floor beneath his feet. His head twisted around to inspect the mess of activity, and although the liveliness was so shadowy, he knew where he was. He was more than content and comfortable with it. The scene was bright and fun, and he felt part of it. Blissful excitement sent shivers down his spine, while his head floated with happiness. It was nice here; it was supposed to be nice.

Then he saw her coming towards him. Despite her rather gruff expression, he still welcomed her arrival with a deliriously inexpressive mind. He was expecting her, after all, awaiting her entrance with a small sensation of anticipation. The motion around her swirled, and she walked through it as if it parted just for her. Her eyes were narrowed, her teeth gritted agitatedly. Her long hair was done up in two high pigtails, each draped over into her young face. 

Suddenly, he didn't want her nearing him any longer. Danger and fear rose in him steadily, and he could feel his body tightening in response. She was coming closer, ominously closer. The arrival that he had expected was not as inviting anymore. He didn't want her here now, he was having too much of good time. She wanted to disrupt that good time, but he wasn't going to allow her. 

He could feel his tongue slide from his mouth, extending insultingly at his intruder. Her eyes widened at the tease furiously, and in the next moment, she was upon him. Arms flailing in his direction, he shut his eyes as she overshadowed him. He knew she was trying to punch him, attack him, but her mighty fists seemed to soften to practically nothing right before contact. He could barely feel them. Still, as far from harm as he felt, he braced himself and screamed, begged for her to get off of him, begged for her to stop. He was becoming claustrophobic, looking up to see only her fiery hair flying about and his hands reaching up to restrain her. 

He knew she was going to stop. He waited for it, waited and waited. Time seemed to slow, and the sounds and sights became even hazier. And yet, she kept up, not ceasing, not slowing. Instead, she began to yell.

"Brock! Brock!" she screeched, punching him pitifully again and again. "Wake up, Brock! Wake up!"

"No, no! Get off of me! Go away!" Brock shouted back desperately, shaking his head back and forth. How could he wake up? He wasn't sleeping! Wasn't anyone going to stop her? Wasn't anyone going to help him—?

"Brock! BROCK!"

Broke awoke with a start, his body shuddering abruptly. Groaning coarsely, his eyes fluttered open, taking in the dim light. Was it morning already? It took a moment for him to grasp his bearings, feeling only the familiar warmth of his bed-sheets and the fluffiness of his pillow. Maneuvering himself around tiredly, he squinted in the direction of his source of awakening, muddled and dazed.

As his eyes focused, he discovered Misty smirking at him from her bed. She was lying on her side, engulfed within her blankets, her head propped up sleepily with her hand.

"Hi," he moaned, lifting himself up wearily.

"Hey," she replied softly.

Brock rose to a seated position, almost hitting his head on the bunk above his head. He winced as he realized how close he came to it, then disregarded it, glancing over at Misty again.

"What are you doing up?" he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

Misty sighed. "I got woken up before," she answered. "Some other trainer must have checked in and was really noisy in the next room. I haven't been able to sleep since. Stupid Pokémon Centers and their late check-ins."

Brock shook his head. It seemed like it weighed a ton, and he reached up to massage his temples.

"What time is it?"

Misty twisted her head around to look at the clock on the adjacent wall. "Almost one A.M."

"Oh man," Brock grumbled, falling back to his pillow. 

"Shhhh!" Misty commanded in a whisper, pointing to the bunk above her. "Ash is still asleep."

His head still buried in the pillow, Brock nodded. He didn't feel like talking anyway. He was too tired to do anything. Yawning loudly again, he kicked the blankets off his legs. He hated being woken up at this time of night, but unlike Misty, he felt he would have no problem getting back to bed. 

"So . . ." Misty said, still whispering. He looked over at her with blinking, tired eyes. "What were you dreaming about?"

"Huh?" he asked.

Misty laughed. "What were you dreaming about?" she repeated slowly and clearly.

It only took a second for Brock to remember that he'd been dreaming. The image of the scene returned swiftly to his mind, the scene his mind had recreated more times than he could count.

"Oh, that," he answered, proceeding to look confusingly at her. "How did you know I was dreaming?"

"Oh, c'mon, Brock!" Misty exclaimed lightly, rolling her eyes. "You looked like you were in distress! You were tossing and talking in your sleep like crazy!"

"Oh," he said apathetically. "It was nothing."

Misty's eyes widened. "Nothing?" she chuckled. "It didn't sound like nothing to me!"

Brock gave her a curious look. "Why, what was I saying?" he asked, slightly embarrassed that he talked in his sleep. He nearly feared what Misty would reveal that he had been shouting.

Misty cackled softly. "You were screaming, 'Get off of me! Get off of me!'" She smiled deviously. "Who did you want to get off of you, Brock? A monster?"

"No!" Brock grunted, running a hand through his messy hair. It was too late and he was slightly incoherent, but he laughed nevertheless. "I dunno . . . this person."

"What person?" she pressed tauntingly.

"I don't know!" he replied, though he knew quite well who it was. Well . . . sort of. He paused for a moment, trying hard not to smile. "A girl."

"Ooooooh!" Misty cooed. "A girl? What girl?"

"I don't know!" Brock repeated himself again, sounding a bit fed up. "Look, can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm really tired."

"Oh, Brock, tell me about it!" Misty pleaded, smiling hopefully at him. "C'mon, I can't get to sleep. Can't ya tell me?"

Brock groaned, raising his head from the pillow again. He wanted to sleep very badly, but he couldn't shake the memory of the dream from his head. Misty prompting him to talk about it didn't help much. Truth was, he didn't feel like talking about it. It was pretty humiliating, especially the fact that it was more than just a dream. Brock didn't quite know why an experience such as that was coming back to haunt him in his dreams; he had dreamt about the event more than twice since it occurred. It wasn't that it was horrible . . . it truly wasn't at all. He did know why it stuck in his mind, but he often wondered why he dreamt about it—especially _that _part of it. 

"Oh, _Misty_," he moaned, ready to request sleep again in a way to escape telling his tale. Misty deciphered his tone, and gave him a puppy-dog look to sway him. He gazed at her pathetic little look, and finally relented.

"It's not _that_ exciting, you know."

"It sounds exciting," she disagreed. She snuggled comfortably into her covers, ready for him to begin.

Brock slumped at this, shaking his head. He smiled gently, however. "Look, it was just a dream. Well—" He paused for a moment, making a half-shrug. "Kinda . . ."

"Whaddah ya mean, kinda?" Misty grinned.

Brock closed his eyes, smiling humbly. "Well, see, I've had this dream a lot. Actually . . ." He chuckled. ". . . It's kinda just a recollection of something that really happened."

"Really? What, someone sitting on top of you?"

Brock cringed. "Well . . . not sitting . . . try beating on."

He began to laugh as Misty grinned incredulously. "What!?" she exclaimed. "What do you mean? Someone beat you up?" 

Brock looked down. "Um . . . well, not really . . . I guess. It happened a long time ago. The dream's not _entirely_ what happened, just . . . a part."

Misty looked incredibly interested now. "What happened?" 

"Uh . . ." Brock grinned bashfully again. "It's . . . heh, it's . . . ummmm . . . it's kinda the first time I ever . . . you know, fell for a girl."

"Who beat you up!?"

"Yeah . . . sorta."

"And you dream about it?" she asked, her face brightening.

"Uh-huh . . . sometimes."

"Tell me about it, Brock!" Misty begged energetically. "I wanna hear about the first time you liked a girl!" 

"You?" Brock asked, giving her a skeptical look.

"Yeah, this sounds too funny!" Her wild ponytail flew about as she pounded the sides of her bed eagerly—careful enough not to wake Togepi, though. Brock falling in love for the first time with a girl who beat him up? Didn't seem surprising actually, but it sounded too entertaining to pass up.

Brock dropped his head in his hands, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Guess there was no point in disappointing her, but he found he was pretty much awake now himself. He decided to smile; his story was cute. Not many boys admitted that they liked girls at the young age of seven, even in this scenario, but he was Brock, after all. 

He took a deep breath, folding his legs underneath him to get more comfortable. "Okay, well . . . I was seven-years-old, and I was at one of those annual Gymleader Luncheons . . ."

__

Brock couldn't believe it was that time of the year again. It seemed like forever since the last Luncheon, and he was doubtlessly ecstatic about being in the center of the action again. He stood in practically the middle of the huge dance floor, which was part of an even larger catering hall, the same catering hall that hosted the Annual Gymleader Luncheon every year. Music from the DJ blasted, echoing off the towering walls. Frivolous adults—those of whom were not chatting or eating, that was—danced to the pounding beat, while kids of all various ages chased around him, laughing and screaming. He felt like such a helpless little creature among the activity, but he liked it. He was a never-ending bundle of energy, craving such animation. 

He wasn't alone, either. About five or six other boys stood around him, one of them being his brother. They weren't saying much—they were too busy hopping strenuously to the music themselves. Brock's unruly hair flopped around, and his shoelaces were becoming untied. His heart raced as he was breaking out into a sweat. It was hot being in such a stuffy, tight enclosure, as there was barely an inch around him to call his own. He couldn't care less, though. He felt happily dizzy, lost in his own world of unstoppable fun. 

"Kids on the dance floor, let me hear ya SCREAM!" the DJ suddenly boomed over his microphone, followed immediately by a chorus of jubilant screeches. Brock joined in, lifting his arms and vaulting into the air as he hollered. Around him, as he noticed, the adults chuckled, shaking their heads. Some even held their ears. A smile spread across Brock's face delightedly. He was truly having the time of his life.

He danced on and on, adrenaline rushing through his body. He was getting thirsty and hungry, even though he had devoured a few pieces of Italian hero and handfuls of chips and pretzels just a half-hour before. He knew he couldn't get to the food tables with ease, though, and forgot about it quickly, his attention drawn instead to a rambunctious group of girls who had suddenly wandered near his group. There were about ten of them, huddling together and giggling mysteriously. 

Brock's brow furrowed. His group certainly didn't need girls around them. He wished for them to go on their way, but they remained, starting to dance to the music. But as much as he didn't find their presence welcoming, he couldn't help but keep his eyes on them—

"Hold up!" 

Brock halted in mid-sentence, giving Misty a disgruntled look for interrupting his story so abruptly. 

"What?" he asked, cocking an eye to her teasing grin.

"I can't believe you!" she laughed. "Don't tell me that you were drooling over a bunch of girls when you were _seven_!"

"I wasn't drooling over them!" Brock shot back immediately. "I didn't like girls! I wanted them to go away."

Misty slumped. "Then why were you staring at them?"

"I don't know," Brock shrugged. "I was curious, that's all. I was interested in them, but not _romantically_."

"_Sure_," Misty nodded, giving him a sly look. "That's what _interested_ means!"

Brock just simply narrowed his eyes wearily. "Whatever, Misty."

Misty smiled, sticking her tongue out friskily at him. "Hey, I remember those Gymleader Luncheons!" she recalled whimsically. "They were a lot of fun!"

"Yeah, I know. They really were," Brock agreed, smiling. "Used to go to _all _of them."

"Me too," Misty replied, her face lighting up. She looked up at the ceiling. "Wow, that was a long time ago. I don't even remember them much any more!"

Brock nodded. "Yeah."

"I mean, I just have these vague memories of running around and all," Misty smiled. "I remember my sisters and I—we used to just slide around on the dance floor in our socks! And the DJ used to hand out these leis and we used to try to get all the colors. And I always used to eat the cannolis there! Oh wow, they were so good! I _loved_ them!" 

She hopped up and down on her bed, giggling happily. She clapped her hands together, causing Brock's shoulders to droop.

__

This is the last time I stay up late with Misty, he chuckled to himself, amazed at her rowdiness. It was scary, to say the least.

"May I continue now?" he asked of her permission.

She quickly shut her mouth, nodding calmly to permit him to go on. Brock sighed.

__

Brock watched the group of young girls attentively. He was sure some of them were a lot older than himself, but he couldn't tell completely. They weren't even dancing, just twirling themselves around on the dance floor. They were smiling madly, screaming with their girly high-pitched voices, enough to make Brock scowl disgustingly. He hated to hear girls screech, hated to hear their voices all together. Girls were yucky, certainly not his cup of tea. Pokémon was his cup of tea . . . rock Pokémon in general. They were a lot more fun, a lot more fascinating, and certainly a heck of a lot cooler. He'd go for a rock Pokémon over a girl any day.

Brock turned away, deciding to get his mind off of the girls by giving his friend a playful shove. The boy laughed, shoving him back, the music feeding their energy. 

"Hey!" Brock shouted to him over the music. "Wanna get some soda?"

"Yeah!" he replied. "I'm really hot!"

Brock nodded, the thought of a nice, cold drink causing his dry throat to become even more desperate for the relief. 

The two stood beside each other and paused, searching the hordes of hyper people for a clear route to the refreshment table. They were all around them, pushing and shoving in their own attempts to get through. Brock couldn't believe how many people showed up at these Luncheons . . . all gymleaders in the region were allowed up to twenty-five guests. And it seemed almost all took full advantage of it, perhaps even more.

"C'mon," he told his friend, motioning for him to follow. "Let's cut through." 

As Brock moved out from his little territory, immediately halted by a barricade of capricious dancers, he heard those familiar squeals again. He rolled his eyes at it, wanting to gag. Turning his head to see what those ridiculous girls found so amusing, he suddenly saw them careening towards him. Well, not towards him, of course . . . who knew where they were heading? In any case, Brock was directly in their intended path, and withdrawing his arms into his body protectively, ground his teeth as they shot past him, their hair flying and elbowing him aside carelessly. Their giddy cries pierced his ears, causing him to wince. He closed his eyes, feeling them push past him, almost like there were dozens of them. Like a rampaging stampede of Tauros, he thought to himself.

He opened his eyes again as they were still rushing past, wondering when the madness would end. It wasn't going to end as soon as he hoped. In the mess of veering females, one got just a little too close to him. The wind was knocked out of Brock as one of the charging girls unintentionally rammed into him, sending him stumbling back. 

"Whoa, whoa!" he cried, feeling the girl struggle in mid-air after the impact. Her legs intertwined, and her hands grabbed at his clothes as she plummeted to the floor, landing flat on her stomach. Her long hair, tangled, wild, and pigtailed, flew in all directions, and her eyes shut painfully as she hit the floor. 

Brock stared at her for a moment, waiting for the inevitable crying and wailing to begin. All girls seemed to cry when they fell, and Brock felt it coming. Still, he couldn't help but succumb to his basic boyish needs, and he did what any sensible little boy would do after seeing a girl's hapless, yet undeniably humorous, misfortune. 

He laughed his head off.

Guffawing his lungs out, Brock doubled over and pointed at the girl, inducing his pals to join in. Their boisterous laughter drowned out the music as they watched the girl scramble on the floor, pushing herself up haggardly to a kneeling position. She wiped the dirt from her hands on her baggy overalls. For a moment, she didn't even seem to be paying attention to the ridiculing boys behind her. Brock took notice of this, and waited with anticipation for her to turn around, cower at that laughter, and burst into tears. 

"Oh, that was _real_ charming of you," Misty had to comment, tsk-tsking. "Little creep!"

Brock sighed at her sly smile. "Misty, I was a _kid!_ It was funny back then!"

"Yeah, well, did you like it when people laughed at _you _when you got hurt?" Misty asked, folding her arms in front of her. She was still smiling, but giving him a reproachful look. "She might have really been hurt!"

That statement nearly made Brock cry out in laughter. He couldn't believe the absurdity of it! 

"Yeah, right!" he exclaimed, his eyes rolling in extreme amazement. "Trust me, this girl was _anything _but hurt . . ."

__

When she finally did turn around, Brock was shocked to see that she wasn't upset, nor was she hurt. The sharp glare in her big blue eyes—burning right into his—confirmed that. She was flaming mad, her cheeks and forehead turning as pink as her tee shirt as the mocking soaked into her. It was not settling smoothly into her, to say the least.

Brock's laughter came to an abrupt halt as the girl jumped to her feet, fuming. 

"Stop laughing at me!" she growled at him, holding her fists rigidly at her sides. Brock was startled at her surly tone. "Stop it!"

Brock was taken back by her furious demands, trembling at her homicidal look. The whites of her eyes flared at him, her teeth clenching. She was a few inches shorter than him, and she still had much of a baby-face. She was probably younger than he was, Brock assumed, but he didn't have much of an opportunity to inspect the details as the enraged little girl stomped closer to him, breathing heavily.

"You tripped me!" he accused him. "You tripped me and I fell! Say you're sorry!"

Brock could hear his friends snickering behind him, and he began to do the same. As serious and intimidating as this little girl appeared, her claims were pretty funny. Apologize for tripping her? He hadn't tripped her, and the fact of the matter made him chuckle. Like he was going to let some little snotty girl blame him for something he hadn't even done!

The girl didn't seem too happy about his returning laughter. "Stop laughing at me!" she yelled again. "You tripped me! You knocked me down!"

"No, I didn't!" Brock shot back, trying to give her a rigid face through his giggling. "I didn't trip you."

"Yes, you did!" she contradicted. "Say you're sorry!"

"No!" Brock retorted, shaking his head. "I didn't trip you! You bumped into me and fell!"

The little girl's face puffed up irately at that. At this point, Brock could not understand it. Why wasn't she crying and running to her mommy like she should have done by now? She didn't even have a trace of tears in her eyes; she was just angry, rabidly angry. He'd never seen anything like this before, but wasn't about to falter to it, either. Brock stood up a bit straighter, as if that would boost his appearance any more. 

"No!" the girl screeched, baring her teeth. "You did_ trip me, you did! You're mean and rude, and you knocked me down!"_

Brock's eyes widened. Just who the heck was she, calling him names now to boot? He had nothing to do with this . . . intentionally, that was. He knew it was completely her fault, and there was no way he was going to apologize to her.

"I'm not mean and rude," he spat. "You're just clumsy and—and . . . and dumb! You weren't watching where you were going!"

"I am not!" she yelled in reply. Suddenly, she gave him a shove. Caught off guard, Brock stumbled back, but quickly found his feet. 

"Hey! Don't push me!" he growled, slightly embarrassed that this skinny little girl had pushed him around. But skinny or not, Brock took note that she sure had a lot of strength behind her.

"Say you're sorry!" she ordered, totally ignoring his statement_and shoving him again. _

Brock narrowed his eyes. "No!" Meanwhile, his friends continued to laugh.

"Yes!" she belted out, giving him yet another forceful shove. Brock was getting a little sick of her shoving, and as much as he wanted to push her back, he knew he shouldn't. Not that it wasn't tempting, but the last thing he needed was for his mom or dad to see him pushing around a girl smaller than him. That just spelt trouble. 

"I didn't push you!" Brock defended himself, getting louder with each proclamation. "Leave me alone!"

"Not until you say you're sorry!" He realized she wasn't going to give up without a fight. But he was darned if he was going to listen to her.

"No way!"

She snarled, giving him another shove, rather violently this time. Brock's chest ached from it. Before she said anything else, he caught her looking down at his shirt, her lips curling into a repulsed frown. 

"Ewwww!" she exclaimed, pointing at him. "You like_ that Pokémon?"_

Alarmed, Brock took a short glance at his shirt. Centered among a splash of colorful tie-dye stood a cartoonish Geodude . . . one of his favorite.

"Yeah!" he answered, his tone hostile. "Geodude rule!"

"No, they don't!" the girl declared, her voice just as vicious. "Rock Pokémon are ugly!"

Brock's jaw dropped to the ground. She was going way too far now . . .

"Goldeen are cool, not Geodude!" she said, sneering. "Rock Pokémon stink!"

"They do not!" Brock cried venomously, clenching his fists. "They're the best!"

"They're the worst!" she begged to differ. "They're dumb and ugly . . . just like you!"

Brock's blood began to boil, his heart beating intensely. He wanted none other than to clobber her, and if she was a boy, he wouldn't have hesitated a second. Fighting down the urges to end this argument the way that was simplest, he took deep breaths. Her insults, though pathetic and completely untrue, were still unnerving him. Of course, walking away from the annoying little girl would have been just as good, but as her accusations and insults washed over him, and with the wall of spectator friends he had behind him, he figured that wasn't going to happen.

He knew a way of ending the sudden word-war, however. She thought she was clever with her words? She hadn't seen anything yet. Knowing a lot more words than he should, he considered it almost like a skill he retained. If this didn't top it off, he didn't know what would. Cocking one eye deviously, he huffed. 

"Well, you're dumb, ugly, whiny, bratty, stinky, nasty, andcrappy**_, _**too!" And to close it, he stuck his tongue out at her.

Well, that certainly did it . . . not the way Brock expected, though. Before he had a chance to be proud of his accomplishment, the girl jumped at him. Taken by surprise, Brock yelped as her force pushed him to the ground. His friends jumped out of the way as he crashed onto the dance floor, his arms sprawled out in both directions and back throbbing in pain from the fall. 

"What!? Wa—wait!" he cried as she fell on top of him, proceeding to punch his shoulders with all her might. Brock gasped, unable to believe how hard she was hitting. Immediately, his shoulders ached miserably, not getting a second of _relief as her blows rained on him steadily. He tried to lift his hands up to restrain her, but to no avail. It was impossible for him to block her fists, nor to lift her surprisingly heavy body off of him. He was stuck and trapped . . . being beat up by a girl._

Brock was in disbelief over what was happening. Just what did he do_ anyway? Other than minding his own business and trying to get to the food table without getting bumped into by a million people on the way there? All he knew now was that there was a rather incensed little girl on top of him, keeping him short of breath by jabbing her knees into his stomach, and punching him with her tiny fists. Over what? _

"Get off of me!" he tried to command, but she paid no attention. She just continued to pout and punch, her teeth gritted and her pigtails flinging in violent loops. She didn't look like she was the least bit ready to give up.

Brock had to get her away from him somehow, but he knew better than to fight back. Being beat up by this girl was humiliating enough, but returning all her aggression back at her was not the right way to go. He wasn't prepared to stoop to her level, but now it was becoming mighty enticing. Her punches were beginning to hurt now, after all—hurt badly—and he needed to find one way to get rid of her before she decided to go any further. 

Brock decided his best bet was by pushing her off of him. But try as he might, she was stuck to him like glue. He cringed as her flailing fists smacked his hands away, her face beet red in fury. Brock could feel tears stinging at his eyes now, and he nearly felt disgusted at himself over it. He couldn't cry, and he wouldn't. But this was no light matter anymore. He was scared, and he wanted it direly to stop.

"Please, please, go away! Get offa me!" he begged, not caring anymore for what his friends would think. He screamed as loud as he could, still trying to ward off her fists. "Leave me alone_!"_

His prayers were instantly answered, to his relief. In an instant, she was pulled off of him, leaving Brock gasping for air. He looked up with stunned eyes to see his rescuer, a large man, yanking the little girl away from him rather forcefully. With the look of anger taking over the man's face, as well as the look of pure fear flashing to the girl's eyes as he glared at her, it took no time for him to realize the man was her dad.

"What do you think you're doing!? Huh!?" she shouted into her face, clutching her wrist tightly. 

It was remarkable as the girl's face instantly changed, her lip quivering and eyes glistening over with tears.

"N-nothing," she shakily replied, cowering. 

Brock stumbled to his feet, his eyes fixed on the scene. He was surprised to see he wasn't the only spectator; all surrounding eyes were focused on them.

"That didn't look like nothing to me!" her father yelled back, glancing over to Brock briefly before glowering at his daughter again. "What's the matter with you?"

"Daddy, he—that boy tripped me! He called me names!" she said, pointing at Brock. Brock recoiled, but the man didn't even take a second look at him. He just proceeded to drag the girl away and through the crowd, which seemed to part for them. Brock kept his head down as he watched them, slipping his hands into his pockets absentmindedly. 

He was able to see the girl lugged over to one of the tables surrounding the dance floor, which wasn't that far away. The girl was pulling against her father's grip, complaining the whole way about how much it wasn't her fault. Her dad was having none of it, however, pushing her into one of the chairs firmly.

"I can't believe that scene you caused!" he roared at her. "Don't you dare get out of the chair for the rest of the party! You hear me, missy?" 

The girl's face instantly fell. "But Daddy—" she began to whine.

"No more!" he chided. "You sit there and don't get up!"

Brock watched as the father stormed off in a rut, shaking his head disgracefully. Brock's jaw was dropped, unable to believe that the girl who was now sitting in shock at her table was the same that had attacked him just moments ago. The ache in shoulders beginning to dull, he witnessed her watch her dad leave dispiritedly and accepting the mess she had just gotten herself into. The transformation was amazing.

He was standing still as a stone on the dance floor, still looking at her. She didn't seem to notice him; she was too shocked, too upset. She looked like she was about to cry. At that moment, something suddenly bubbled up within him. Brock fully had a chance to notice how much of a petite thing she actually was. She looked almost completely innocent sulking there, vulnerable and fragile. It was astounding how looks could be so deceiving. 

Swallowing softly and hunching his shoulders, Brock decided to forget about it once and for all, and turned to go back to where his friends were waiting. They were sure going to get some laughs out of this, and he slumped slightly. Before he moved, though, he glanced once more at the little girl. He couldn't help it. She was just as she was a second ago, glum and dejected. His heart sank, and in an instant, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. She was just trying to defend herself, that's all. Just trying to stick up for herself, just as he would have done; not let anyone in his way and give him grief. Underneath it all, she was a victim just as he was . . .

Brock was looking down at his hands, which were folded neatly in his lap. He had been preoccupied with them for most of the story, almost as if each memory was coming back to him with deep hypnotism. His thoughts had completely taken hold of him, and he told his tale straight out, surprisingly without any more interruptions from Misty. 

"I mean," he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly, "I—I really don't know why I was feeling it. She had beaten me up after all, and accused me of making her fall, and as much as I should have cheered for her father dragging her away, I . . . I couldn't help but . . . but feel _bad_ for her, like—like it was partly my fault, too . . . ya know?"

He sighed, looking up at Misty for the first time in a while. He flinched as his eyes met hers, taken back immediately by her look. He shuddered lightly as she gawked at him, her jaw dropped and her eyes widened considerably. Becoming nervous from her look, Brock's face wrinkled.

"Wha—wha—what!?" he stuttered uneasily. "What's the matter, Misty?"

Misty was speechless, blinking long and hard. Brock cocked his head at her, confused. She was just sitting there staring at him, not moving a muscle except for the repeated blinking.

Brock shook. "What's wrong? What did I say?" he asked, desperate for her to talk.

She just closed her eyes slowly, her stunned face suddenly curving into an incredulous smile. "Brock . . ." she said carefully, opening her eyes. "That . . . that was _me_!"

Misty screamed out the last part—as loud as she could in a whisper, that was. Not that she was concerned about waking Ash, but because she was too shocked to even produce a vital voice.

Brock's eyes widened as she began to chuckle, her hands flying to her face. 

"_What!?_" he exclaimed. 

Misty nodded elatedly. "Yeah, yeah!" she replied, gesticulating wildly with her hands. "I was that little girl! That was me, Brock, that was _me_!"

Brock began to shake his head back and forth now. "No, no way," he whispered, a smile still creeping at his lips. "No, it can't be! That couldn't have been you! It . . . it was you? It was really you!?"

"Yes!" Misty squealed, laughing. Her face was glowing, the shock of the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. Her heart was racing at an insurmountable speed, pumping out of her chest. "That was me!"

She jumped out off her bed and gave him a hearty, friendly shove, giggling unstoppably. Brock just sat there, frozen in shock. He watched her jump about, stifling her laughter and clenching her eyes shut tightly. 

"I can't believe it!" she giggled. "I can't believe it!"

"Neither can I!" Brock replied, still shaking his head. It was too unbelievable—the confrontation, the flying insults, the moment she let fly at him and eventually being hauled off by her enraged, embarrassed father . . . That was _Misty_? "No . . . no! That wasn't you!"

Misty rolled her eyes, her face flushed. "Yes, it was!" she insisted. "Oh my God, Brock, you have no idea! That whole incident—it was just coming back to me as you told it! It's unbelievable!"

"So all these years . . . ?" Brock started.

"All these years," Misty confirmed, just as surprised. She chuckled, slapping his knee. "You've been traveling with the girl who beat you up all these _freakin' years_!"

She broke into laughter again, but this time Brock joined her. A blush streaked across his nose as he smacked his forehead. It was just too much for him—he was sitting in the same room with that annoying brat of a girl, had been traveling from town to town with her for four years, and had practically taken her into his life as his own sister.

"Oh man, I remember that now," she cried between laughs. "It's so amazing how you were just telling a story right out of my life . . . I can remember falling down and feeling so embarrassed, and then beating up this kid, and then having to sit out the whole rest of the day . . . oh my God_, that was you!?_"

This time, Brock was the one to nod, and laughed as Misty collapsed backwards on her bed, covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, that's just too _weird_!" she said.

Brock was perplexed. He really didn't know what to say. He was too blown out of the water to even accept this just yet.

Misty got back up, glancing at Brock between her fingers. They just kept like that for a few moments, neither of them saying a thing. They just stared at each other, scrutinizing each other's faces, taken in the reality of the discovery that had just been made, putting two and two together. 

"Oh my God . . ." Misty muttered again, laughing shortly. Brock did, too, but they stopped right after, looking at each other again. 

Brock was dumbfounded. "I—I . . . _you_? You!"

Misty nodded, snickering.

"That was you!" he growled playfully, pointing stiffly at her.

Misty finally moved her hands away from her face, nodding. "Yup. My bratty little self. That was me."

Brock exhaled forcibly. "That was you. You beat me up. You bumped into me and fell and beat me up."

Misty confirmed it with another prolonged, dragged nod. "Yes . . . but I didn't bump into you. You tripped me."

Brock gasped humorously. "What? Oh, c'mon Misty!"

"Nope, nope," Misty contradicted, grinning easily. "You tripped me that day, Brock! You got in my way and knocked me to the floor!"

"Misty, I can't believe you still think—"

Misty chortled, waving it away with her hand. "I'm teasin' ya!" she smiled, watching Brock's face sag wearily. "I'm kidding, Brock, I'm just kidding!"

Shaking his head, Brock folded his arms in front of him. "Good, you better."

Another period of silence befell them. The image of the little girl—Misty—shoving him to the ground, her vicious temper flaring and rage letting loose, was unable to leave Brock's mind. But of course! If they had both attended most of the Gymleader Luncheons, it was certain that they must have bumped into each other unbeknownst at least once in the course of time. The fact that they were both in the same catering hall together all those years was eerie enough, but for Misty to be that one girl . . . that one girl who had totally changed his perception of girls altogether—

All of a sudden, Brock's head shot up. His air escaped his lungs in a flash, brought on by the abrupt leap of his heart.

Misty noticed this, and chuckled. "What's the matter?"

Brock jumped as she spoke to him. "Oh, nothing," he stammered, smiling nervously. "I—I'm just . . . you know, sh-shocked. That's all."

"I know," Misty replied softly, shaking her head.

Brock took a deep breath to replace what he had lost a second ago, trying to calm down. Maybe . . . maybe she forgot what he had initially said. Maybe that totally fled her mind after what had just been revealed. The bad thing was, he hadn't forgotten. There was another memory flooding to his mind as they sat there in a daze, other than the one where she jumped him. It was afterwards, when he was watching her, her once-violent face falling into one of complete sadness and shame . . . when for the first time in his life, his heart had gone out to a girl . . .

He looked at her, balling his fists. "Wow," he said, hoping that somehow keeping the subject rolling would continue to help that now-completely awkward revelation slip further from her mind. "For some little girl, you packed quite a punch!"

Misty blushed, hanging her head. "I know," she admitted. "I was a tough cookie."

"Tell me about it!" Brock laughed. She shut her eyes bashfully—the same blue ones that had stared him down ten years ago, the same ones that had flooded with tears, sad enough to stir his compassion. Brock bit his tongue. "You were some violent thing for a five-year-old! You really hurt me!"

"Yeah. I guess it started early in me. I didn't take garbage from anybody."

"You certainly didn't." Brock sighed, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Um . . . Misty . . . I'm sorry."

Misty rolled her eyes. "Oh man, Brock, give me a break! What are you doing that for?"

Brock shrugged. "I dunno. I guess . . . I guess that's what I should've done in the first place. Then you would've left me alone and that whole mess wouldn't have happened."

Misty tilted her head. "No, Brock. If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me! I got myself into that mess on my own. I should've just gotten up and went back to play."

"Well, it was just one stupid occurrence, that's what it was," said Brock, giving her a tender smile. She nodded softly. "There's stuff we could've both done to avoid . . . everything that happened." He paused. "I just felt so bad for you . . . you know, when you had to sit out for the rest of the party? I felt like that was partly my fault."

Misty waved it away, making a face. "Aw, don't worry about that. Happened all the time. It was no big deal, believe me."

"Yeah, but it was!" Brock argued gently. "And it was because of me, too. I feel guilty easily, I guess. All I know is, after your dad made you sit down, and I looked at you there so . . . I dunno . . . disappointed . . . I just felt so bad for you . . . sympathetic . . . Like at that moment, I . . . I was too young to realize how—"

He immediately stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes shooting to hers. She gave him a confused look, shrugged slightly.

"Too young to realize what?" she asked.

Brock couldn't move. He couldn't believe what he had just stopped himself from saying at the right moment. 

__

No, no, no, no, no, no! he yelled at himself. _Watch it now, Brocko . . ._

He stared into her baffled eyes, deep into them. In that instant, he suddenly didn't see Misty sitting before him . . . he saw _her_, that girl. The first girl he had ever felt differently about. 

__

But that girl wasn't Misty! Brock thought_. Well, it _was _Misty . . . but it wasn't! But—but it was! But you didn't know it, sooo . . . Aw, man . . . _

"Brock?" Misty said, grinning slightly. "Are you okay?"

Brock broke out of his trance, shaking his head. "Um . . . yeah, I'm fine," he replied hastily.

Misty smiled. "What . . . what were you going to say?"

__

Oh shoot, whaddah you say now?

"Oh . . . n-nothing," he dismissed it quietly.

"Nothing?"

"Yeah."

Misty looked at him oddly. "No . . . you were going to say something! What was it?" She laughed perkily. "You can tell me."

Broke froze, speechless, gawking at her.

"Brock!"

__

Oh boy . . .

He was having a hard enough time coming to terms with it himself, and now he had to tell it to Misty of all things? He honestly didn't know how he was going to do it, and worse yet, how she would react. She had clearly forgotten about it . . . but then again, she wasn't dumb. It would come back to her eventually. Taking a huge breath, Brock decided at that moment that it was nothing hard to do. It didn't have to be, and putting on a smile—a sincere, but very apprehensive smile—he reached up to scratch his head.

"I . . . I was just going to say how . . . well . . ." He lingered for a second, cringing as he thought. He couldn't even look at her, he was so embarrassed. "You, um . . . know how before—you know, before the story—how . . . I told you that this was . . ."

Misty leaned forward, raising her eyes expectedly. 

Brock smiled, now yanking at his hair. "Misty . . . seeing you sitting there . . . was probably the first time . . ."

Finally, it had hit Misty. Her eyes suddenly went wide, her face reddening slightly. Brock chuckled once inaudibly, biting his lip. 

"You were the first girl I ever . . . liked," he said, thereafter depositing his blushed face into his hands with a whoosh. He never—never!—in his life thought he was going to say that statement. Technically, Misty wasn't really the first girl he fell in love with—just a half-hour ago, Misty and the infuriated redhead from his past were two different people. But they weren't anymore, making his mind swirl just the more.

He was too afraid to look at her. Stillness followed, and Brock tensed. What was she thinking? What was her facial expression? Had she _fainted?_ He feared to find out . . . but he knew he couldn't hide his head forever. 

__

Think of what to say, Brock, he advised himself. _Be . . . truthful. It _is_ the truth after all . . . isn't it? Acccck . . ._

At long last, he lifted his head. His face was flaming hot; he knew he was blushing. Oh, why did he have to be blushing? That just made it even worse.

Misty was smiling. She was _smiling_. Brock couldn't believe the tension lifting from his stomach as he studied her face. She didn't even look shocked; she was simply smiling, a gentle, warm face melting into his eyes.

An unstrung laugh escaped him, and he looked away. "I . . . hehe . . ." He had no idea what to say, but thankfully, Misty saved him.

"Brock," she said soothingly, her voice flowing. His gaze returned to hers. "Don't be embarrassed."

"Huh?" he muttered.

She grinned tenderly. "Don't be embarrassed. I think that's sweet."

Brock's face lit up in surprise. "You do?"

Misty nodded. "Of course I do. Why . . . why wouldn't I?" She paused for a second, making Brock become tense again. "Don't . . . don't you remember what happened after that?"

His eyes raising, he nodded idly. Certainly he remembered it . . . how could he not?

"You did something really . . . unexpected after that . . ."

__

Brock didn't know how long he had been staring at the girl. He was lost suddenly, his whole world a blur around him. His attention was focused only on her, and no matter how much it confused him, he didn't fight to go against it.

She was so devastated, so sullen. He was certain she was about to cry; she had that look on her face. But why wasn't he glad about that? Shouldn't he have been? He wanted her so badly to cry initially, and what was happening now was what he had craved to see since the beginning. But how had that changed? Brock could feel his stomach sinking at the sight of the little girl, confined to her table against her will. He should have been pleasantly satisfied at this point . . . and yet, he found himself in just the opposite predicament.

"C'mon, Brock!" 

Brock suddenly felt a sharp tug on his shirt, breaking his trance. He turned around to see Dougie, his brother, smiling excited at him.

"They got the desserts out! C'mon!" he said, pulling Brock with him.

Brock didn't reply, but allowed himself to be tugged along. A bunch of other children rushed past him, eager to get to the cookies first. As he walked, however, he took one more glance over his shoulder at the little girl, noticing her watching the kids scramble to the desserts. Her head darted back and forth, lingering mostly at the dessert table, though, staring at it almost longingly.

Brock's heart leapt, and his eyes fell at the sight. She looked anxious now, clearly wanting part of it. For a moment, she lifted herself from the chair, but quickly sat back down, obviously feeling it way too risky.

He would have stopped dead in his tracks if it had not been for Dougie tugging him so ardently. He wasn't feeling just guilty now—he was downright ridden with intense despondency. Brock hated to see someone like that, and for some reason, this girl was no exception. Feeling bad for her was only half of it, though. The other half he didn't quite understand.

He was forced to turn his attention around when they reached the dessert table. Dougie immediately sprang off on his own, grabbing a plate and setting to work. Curling his fingers inattentively, Brock tediously made his way over to claim his own plate. Most adults were occupied with the coffee machine, but children swarmed over the fancy cookies and cakes, practically drooling. Brock took his time, barely moving as he reached for a couple desserts. His mind was elsewhere, though. In fact, he had no appetite for the food; he just felt like sitting back down at his table.

With just three medium-sizing cookies, he prepared to depart from the mayhem. Stopping, he lifted his head, looking back at that table again, looking back at her. She had changed; now her head was in her arms, which were folding on the table. Brock's muscles tightened. Was she crying? No . . . he didn't want her to cry. Even though he wasn't that hungry for dessert, he put himself in her place for a moment, and realized the complete torture of it. It didn't appear as if her parents were bringing her anything—and they probably wouldn't. Brock bit his lip, silently contemplating. Ah, what the heck?

In an instant, he jumped back to the table, snatching another plate at the next opportunity. He was nearly on his toes as he tried to squeeze in between some kids to reach the treats. No one appeared to be moving quickly, but soon a space opened, and Brock flew through it. Before him was a delicious assortment of cannolis. Hastily, Brock reached out for them, seizing about six of the delicacies and plopping them to the plate.

Approaching the girl had to be one of the most nerve-wracking things he had done up until that point. He forced his legs to move, fighting down the increasing apprehension rising in him. The two plates of cookies shook in his fidgety hands. Gradually, he came closer and closer to her table, the walk feeling like forever.

The girl's head was still in her arms when he reached her, and she didn't seem to notice his approach. He stood there quietly for a moment, just looking over her. Finally, he cleared his throat, immediately inducing her to raise her head.

He trembled as their eyes met, hers wide in surprise. He partly expected her to scowl at him instantly, but surprisingly, she just gaped at him, sort of stunned. Brock found his eyes locked on her big blue eyes, sinking into them. They were shiny with tears. 

His body shaking uncontrollably, Brock put the plate of cannolis in front of her. "He-here," he stuttered. "Th-these are for you."

The girl looked down at the plate, stared at it for_a moment, then looked back at him. She swallowed. "Thanks," she said inaudibly._

Brock nodded rapidly, breaking out into a sweat. "Um . . . you—you're welcome."

She looked down at her dessert, and delicately took hold of a cannoli. Brock watched her interestedly as she broke it in half, then took a bite of it. She chewed slowly and quietly, not looking at him. 

"I like these," she said, her voice wobbly. To his surprise, there was absolutely no hostility in her tone at all. Why was that? Brock didn't know, but he just assumed that perhaps she had found the error of her ways.

"O—oh . . . good." Brock wasn't sure what to do, but he was feeling weirder every second.

Finally, she looked up at his again, almost apathetically. Brock wasn't sure what that meant, but felt his work was done. 

"I . . . I have to go . . . eat with my family," he told her, edging away from the table. "B-bye."

"Bye," she replied, a hint of disappointment in her voice. It struck Brock straight in the heart, but he knew he couldn't handle being there by her anymore. He could feel his blood racing, his body heating up. He didn't know why, but the further he wandered from her, the better he felt.

They stared at each other for a moment before he turned around and departed, heading to eat dessert with his brothers and sisters. His heart was only beginning to calm, and slowly but surely, the guilty sensation within him was lifting. He took a deep breath, and went on his way.

Brock and Misty were quiet after that, each looking at their laps, letting the story soak into them.

"That was such a nice thing you did, Brock," Misty said softly.

Brock shrugged. "I had to do it," he replied, looking up at her. "It was nothing."

A smile crept to Misty's face. "I don't think that was nothing," she responded. She lifted herself off her bed and sat down beside him, gazing right into his face. Brock instinctively moved away slightly.

"That was so nice," she added, her voice mumbled pleasantly. She chuckled. "I can't believe you grabbed my favorite dessert on a whim!"

Brock laughed, too, shrugging. "Lucky pick, I guess."

Misty looked at him for a moment, just smiling. "No," she said. "I don't think it was a lucky pick."

Brock tilted his head. Her smile was taking hold of him, her sensitive, deep eyes burning into his. Come to think of it, he noticed, she still had some of that baby-face left, but it was gradually maturing—maturing into the stunning profile of a beautiful young woman. But this was Misty he was looking at . . . he'd looked at her zillions of times before, but for some reason, this time was a bit different.

"You don't?" he said.

Misty smiled, her pearly white teeth glistening in the light. "No, I don't," she replied. "You know, I don't remember much of that day. I mean, all the stuff that I do remember—about the fight, about falling, about sitting by myself . . . they're still just blurs. But I do remember one thing very clearly from that day."

Brock's eyelids were heavy, and he blinked long and hard. "What was that?"

Misty smiled warmly. "I remember after you gave me the cannolis, I watched you walk away, thinking that . . . well, I was totally stupid to do what I did."

Brock wrinkled his forehead, intrigued.

"I was so sorry," she continued, a bit sadly. She reached up to inattentively play with his shirtsleeve, gently tugging it. Brock looked down to watch her, his breathing stopping for just a moment. "There I was, acting all tough and hurting this kid over practically nothing, and yet . . . he came back and brought me dessert. I . . . I didn't think I deserved it."

Brock's mind was beginning to swirl, his head becoming light. Totally captivated by her contrite tone, he sat still and quietly. He was starting to feel weird again—very similar to the way he had back at that Luncheon. Only this time, he knew why. But he wasn't sure if he was really feeling it, whether it was just the situation, the timing and mood, just a fluky thing. He was confused.

Misty had been silent for a second, but she sighed. "Brock, I just wanted to let you know that . . . after all these years . . . I'm sorry."

Brock lifted his head, shocked. 

"It was my fault," she shrugged. "I knew that the whole time; I knew that after you brought me the cannolis. But . . . I just couldn't do it. I couldn't apologize; I was scared. Scared and embarrassed." She laughed ridiculously. "I was so dumb back then, but—but I did feel bad for you."

They stared at each other as she paused, the lingering of her statement hanging in the air. Brock couldn't believe how remorseful she looked.

"Don't apologize, Misty," he said suddenly. He took a deep breath. Fluky or not, he was sensing something extraordinarily unique between them right now, something he had never felt with Misty, and he wasn't ready to let it stupidly slip by. Whether it was right or not, it was what he was feeling.

"Don't apologize for anything that day. Because . . . because of what you did, because of what happened . . . I learned what it meant to like a girl." He smiled. "It takes a while for boys to get out of the icky-cootie girly stage, and . . . and you broke me out of it early."

Misty blinked, a coquettish smile edging her lips.

"You did it for me," Brock said. "And . . . and I know this may sound crazy, but right now I'm feeling that . . . that it was fate."

"Fate?" she whispered, her eyes glazing over, mesmerized.

Brock bit his lip. _You better know what you're doing Brock_, he warned himself, but quickly assured himself in reply, _I know what I'm doing_.

"Yeah," he answered, "fate. Maybe . . . maybe it's not, but . . . I feel it was. Misty, I've dreamed about that day since it happened—a lotta times. Time and time again, I think about it—it comes back to my mind. Because . . . I guess somewhere along the line, I thought that someday . . . I'd find that girl again. The one who changed me so much that day."

Misty's eyes were drooping, the smile still spread pleasantly across her face. Her heart was beating intensely, her mind becoming swiftly engulfed in Brock's words. It was an odd sensation, but one she totally enjoyed. She didn't doubt it, didn't fight it. With every second that passed, she wanted it more and more. Something was happening.

Brock chuckled quietly, reaching up to carefully pull at her hair. "I can't believe that I found that girl four years ago and didn't even have a clue."

Misty laughed, looking away modestly. She didn't keep her eyes away from Brock for long, and when she did return, he was gazing at her, his head slightly tilted, a small smile pressing her, beckoning her over to him. Instantly, she was locked, her thoughts fuzzy and body lifting.

"I think you might be right, Brock," she said as she slowly leaned in, her eyes shutting. Brock did the same, lured to her like a magnet. He was barely thinking anymore, letting his feelings and desires completely take control of his body.

Their lips tenderly met, brushing against each other lightly before they fully pressed together. The kiss was delicate and soft, the warmth of their lips making a pleasant chill run up their spines. They relaxed, hardly breathing, their hearts rushing. It was an incredible sensation, and Misty and Brock allowed themselves to be swept into it. Suddenly, their surroundings disappeared, their minds wandered. It was like a dream, a wild and crazy illusion, but it was real. They both felt it, thrilled and a little astonished from the strong passion. 

Brock carefully lifted his hand to stroke her hair, and broke from the kiss to peck at her lips. Grasping hold of his shirt, she pecked back, clenching her eyes shut blissfully. At that moment, she didn't want it to end. It was undoubtedly the most amazing thing she had done, and she wasn't ready to let it conclude.

They finally did break it off, and they leaned back slowly and comfortably. Swallowing, they looked into each other's eyes. 

"That's for getting me those cannolis," Misty smiled, making Brock blush and look down. She lifted her hand to stroke the side of his face, tickling it slightly. "And . . . and for making me realize what it meant to like a boy, too."

Brock's eyes widened slightly and she beamed. She climbed over to him and they embraced in a warm hug. It was long and wonderful, feeling only their warmth and the beating of their hearts. Brock patted her back softly and moved over a bit so that he sitting at the base of his bed, his back against the board. Misty leaned into him, snuggling close and resting her head on his chest.

"Wow, I never thought I'd wake up in the middle of the night and we'd be . . . kissing," he admitted. His face bundled skeptically. "Is this still a dream?"

Misty laughed, giving him a lovable squeeze. "Nope," she sighed. "You're very much awake, Brock. And I'm glad I woke you up."

"Me, too. So . . ." Brock said, closing his eyes a bit sleepily. "What now?"

Misty was quiet for a moment, nuzzling her face into his shirt. She yawned, then giggling. "How 'bout . . . we go to sleep?"

Brock pursed his lips, then nodded. "We do have a big day tomorrow—well, _today_."

"Mmmm-hmmm," Misty responded tiredly.

Brock smiled. "Yeah, you said it." He looked down at her soft red hair, pulling her closer to him. "Hey—you know what?" he whispered into her ear.

"What?" she whispered back, smiling.

"I'll buy you some cannolis at the bakery tomorrow," Brock replied. 

Misty laughed—and at that moment, Brock didn't know if he could be any happier. He had found his first true love, and all it took was a simple dance, a fight, a plate of cannolis, and a dream on a very special and opportune night. And the greatest girl he realized he had ever met.

He didn't dream about it again that night—he didn't need to.

****

THE END

__

Wow…I wrote a one-shot. @_@ And Ash wasn't in it. Shocking, ain't it? It was for me…I never thought I could pull one of these off! LOL No, don't worry, I'm not going crazy, I just wanted a little change! I hope you enjoyed my little gymshippy—and hope the story wasn't too foreshadowing. ^_^;; I've had a huge desire to write one lately, and thanks to my sister, Adrienne, and my pal, Christine—Salt*N*Pepper—I was able to accomplish it! ^___^ 

I'll have another story on the way next month…possibly. Let's see how school goes first. -_-;; And trust me, it ain't no one-shot! :) Hehehehe! Till then, thanks for reading, and please review!

Pokémon 4Ever in ONE WEEK! Whoah-oh! Happy, happy, happy…! ^______^


End file.
